


Have a Happy, Merry Christmas!

by VeeTheRee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Shopping, Cute Rosie, Cute Sherlock, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Grocery Shopping, Honey, Idiots in Love, Insecure Sherlock, John drags him out anyway, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parenthood, Parentlock, Santa's Elves, Sherlock being soft with Rosie, Sherlock has an inkling desire to whack a candy cane on someone's head, Sherlock hates malls, Sherlock in fact hates buying milk any everything in between, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock really loves John and Rosie, Worried Sherlock, but that's all the parent love, dada Sherlock, he's also hilariously stressed, mama bear Sherlock, soft sherlock, well i hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28272102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeeTheRee/pseuds/VeeTheRee
Summary: Sherlock wakes up one morning a week before Christmas, enjoying the peace and quiet with his husband and daughter at Baker Street. Unfortunately, John plans to drag them to a mall to go shopping. Sherlock yields, and it goes relatively well. That is, until he gets lost in thought in Tesco in an aisle that has different kinds of honey on display, and he loses Rosie, whom he was supposed to watch while John went to finish their shopping. Panicked, Sherlock sets out to find their daughter across the mall, shenanigans ensue, hilarious things and interrogations happen, and Santa's elves are a little fishy. Or smoke-y.And if Sherlock has to hear one more 'Have a happy, merry Christmas!' wish or another repetitive Yuletide song, he'll shoot a wall.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24
Collections: 2020 New Years Fic Exchange





	Have a Happy, Merry Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewatsonbeekeepers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewatsonbeekeepers/gifts).



> I wrote this fic for thewatsonbeekeepers for the 2020 Sherlock New Years Fic Exchange Collection, and I had a blast doing it! @thewatsonbeekeepers gave me free reign saying that 'Anything would be fantastic, really', so I came up with a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, and a bit of dada Sherlock and dad John to enjoy the holidays :) and some humour too!  
> I had my friend read over it and beta'd it myself as well, but if you see any lingering mistake I may have missed, feel free to point them out!  
> This is also my first ever fic writing parentlock, so I hope I did at least an adequate job and that anyone reading will enjoy it just as much as I enjoyed writing this :)

December rounded the corner faster than usual, and Mrs Hudson religiously kept an eye on the Advent candles every Sunday, lightning them even before Rosie woke up the rest of the household. 

London quietened this time of year, which would be to Sherlock’s dismay in the previous years, but not so much anymore. Namely when he could sleep in, next to his husband and daughter, the little bean of happiness lying between them, limbs akimbo as she stretched them out, pushing her dads to the edges of the bed. Technically, she’s his step-daughter, but John always scoffed when he pointed out the useless detail, which (and he wouldn’t admit to this to anyone else than John) melted his insides, serving as a reminder that _this is real, we’re in love, we have Rosie, we’re happy_. At last. 

The sounds of traffic were yet to begin since it was still too early and well, a Sunday before Christmas. Generally, the honking of cars subdued but never fully faded. Sherlock stirred, letting out a content sigh as he rolled to his left, his ribs pressing into Rosie’s tiny foot. 

He blinked, retreating a little so as not to rouse the toddler, even though it proved to be quite difficult when he found himself almost falling off the bed. That would definitely wake Rosie up, and John too. And John could always use more sleep these days. 

Sherlock used his elbow to carefully lift his torso partially up, craning his neck to look at John’s nightstand where he had a digital clock on display. Damn. Only six o’clock. He shot a glance to the windows outside of which the sky was dim and grey, just to let it sink in. John’s back was turned to him, and Sherlock watched Rosie shift in her sleep and prop her tiny feet up against John’s side. He didn’t do much as twitch, sleeping like a log. From this position and lightning, Sherlock could only see the back of John’s greying hair, and his side rising and falling with every deep breath he took. Sherlock slid down onto the mattress, shifting slowly so as not to wake up the other two. He willed himself to get back to the dream world (ridiculous, but he had to use more flowery speech when he was putting Rosie to her bed upstairs, so he had to adopt such terms), but unfortunately, his brain has rewired and he couldn’t achieve the state of comatose-like rest anymore. 

It’s not like he planned to fall asleep in the first place. But last night they had gotten back from a case, and he hadn’t found himself nearly as exhausted as he usually was, so he decided to simply read in bed while John snored away, deservedly so. Later, however, Rosie’s cries reached Sherlock through the baby monitor, and he hushed it sooner than it alerted John’s peace. Rosie, though, had had bad dreams and clung to Sherlock, so he decided to take her to his and John’s bedroom to stay the night, which worked. He tucked them in with Rosie lying on his chest, but she rolled off eventually, and Sherlock felt himself being dragged under the soft pillows of dreams too. 

Well, four hours of sleep after a case he expected to crash after left him miraculously refreshed. Or perhaps not. His transport had tendencies to surprise him as he got older, much to his dislike. The crash can come later in the day, who knows?

Huffing, he looked at John’s clock once more: 6:15. _Tedious_. He grew to like lazy days in bed, but today left him sort of…. restless? For whatever unknown reason. Ah, right. John wanted them to go _shopping_. In a _mall_. _Right before Christmas_. When there were going to be _people_. Hateful. 

Unable to keep lying about, Sherlock made to sit up quietly, his bare feet resting on the wooden floor. He managed to sneak out of the bedroom, but not before putting up his duvet as a sort of barrier that would prevent Rosie from falling over. John was the second barrier, steady and firm as always. 

Sherlock padded into the kitchen, omitting tea for now. Besides, John makes better tea. He’ll wait for that, and for the time being he opted for the milk, draining the whole carton in long gulps, then returning the box back in the fridge. John will surely throw it out when he comes around. 

Turns out, Sherlock didn’t have to wait long. Five minutes after he settled behind the kitchen table to examine dead tissues of a pigeon he skinned at Bart’s the other day, John joined him, his silverish hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes squinting in the sharp kitchen light. 

“Mornin’, love,” he greeted, pressing a sleepy kiss to Sherlock’s temple, not quite successful in his aim, the peck ending up more in Sherlock’s curls. He merely hummed a response, leaning back a bit to press into John who wound his arms around him, resting his cheek atop Sherlock’s head. “Looking forward to shopping today?”

Sherlock groaned. “I hoped you would have forgotten about it.”

“Nope. We’re going, and that includes you,” John said, patting his shoulders. “Besides, we have to buy groceries too, not just presents. It’s a week before Christmas, we have to move our arses early for once.”

“We don’t _have_ to,” Sherlock argued hearing the suction on the fridge door make a sound as John opened and closed it. “You’re just being difficult.”

“I’m difficult? Really? Then what’s this, you lazy slob?” A whack on the head with the empty carton of milk told Sherlock that John found his gift. He rubbed at the not-sore-just-fake-sore spot at the crown of his head, turning to half-heartedly glare at his husband. “At least once you can tag along and buy the milk yourself, you know.”

John walked over to the bin and threw the carton in. Then he put the kettle on and disappeared in the loo to brush his teeth and freshen up. Once he returned, the kettle went off and he let the tea steep for them both.

Sherlock expected John to sit next to him as he did routinely every morning, but instead he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest again, kisses trailing the length of his exposed neck until Sherlock turned his face and they had a proper sweet kiss. 

“What’s that for?” Sherlock husked, leaning his cheek into John’s. 

“Sentiment,” John grinned, patting Sherlock’s chest lightly. “And thank you for taking care of Rosie at night. You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

“A little. I don’t need much sleep, you know that.”

“Hm, wouldn’t be so sure about that. You do tend to doze off more, love.”

Sherlock scoffed. “It’s just because it’s winter and there’s less cases. I get bored, and as such welcome sleep over the abhorrent state of being unable to do something useful.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” John smirked, planting one last kiss on Sherlock’s temple before depositing the steaming cups in front of them. As he sat down, his back straightened, and he fixed Sherlock with a determined look. His Captain Watson mode. “Now, no fussing today, alright? You _did_ agree to go while you were conscious and aware of what I was telling you, so you _are_ coming. We’ll have tea, shower, wait for Rosie to wake up, dress, and then go.”

“John--”

“No, Sherlock. We’re going together because we’re a family, and I need help carrying the bags and with Rosie.”

“You could go shopping and Rosie and I can stay at Baker Street. I’ll teach her new exotic animals.”

“Nope, I want Rosie to have a trip. She likes the lights and decorations, and you do too, you closeted sap.”

“Talk about closeted….”

John kicked him under the table, but only barely suppressed his laughter. “Shut up. Besides, I think that for a two-and-a-half year old, she knows enough about Australian fauna.”

“I thought of introducing her to the many classes of African arachnids….” Sherlock mused, sipping on his delicious tea. 

“Nope. Save that for New Year’s. We all need some fresh air, not like what we sniffed yesterday in the canals.”

“Sharing oxygen with strangers in a packed mall hardly accounts for fresh air, John.”

“Stop trying to wriggle out of this,” John said, glaring at him from over the rim of his teacup. He set the cup down on the porcelain plate, licking his lips. Sherlock was suddenly hypnotised. “Plus, I was thinking we could go have hot chocolate at that cozy place across the street from the mall.”

“The one with marshmallows?” Sherlock asked hopefully, prying his eyes from John’s lips, but failing miserably when a laugh curved them upwards again. 

“Yeah, that’s the one. So. Everything clear?”

Sherlock finished the rest of his tea. He rose to his feet to put the cup in the sink and go have a shower. Sighing, he gave John a firm nod. He’ll find a way to get them home earlier, but the chocolate sounded promising. “Aye aye, captain.”

*~*~*~*~*

Passing the automatic doors of the mall, the hot air slapping Sherlock in the face, he sorely regretted not putting up a bigger fight over this at home. The constant, unrepenting hum of air conditioning already began to grate at his nerves, and the Christmas songs, oh God. Sherlock blinked, having them closed for a while longer than strictly necessary. Whatever. He agreed to this, so suffer through he shall. 

Shoulders squared back into a straight, determined posture, he pushed Rosie’s stroller forth and to the right, John at his side. Their pace was leisurely, and soon John had to unbutton his coat since the temperature inside the public torture box became too much to bear. Sherlock followed suit, but refused to get bullied into shedding his armour this way. Nope. The mall will not defeat him. Not today. 

In the meantime, Rosie inquisitively peered out of her seat, her pink hat with sewn-on tiny cat ears slipping off. Her hair was damp underneath, and Sherlock stopped to kneel beside her and take off her winter jacket, the hat, and her purple scarf. There’s no doubt that he can withstand the change of temperatures, but Rosie is too small to be able to bear it. They’ll put these on shortly before they leave the mall, which, hopefully, will be soon. 

“Where do you plan to go first?” Sherlock asked rhetorically. Naturally, he knew that their first stop was going to be the electronic store. Mrs Hudson and her sister debated the smart watches the other day, and Sherlock and John agreed they could get her one so that she could track the number of steps she took in a day. 

“We can go buy Mrs Hudson that watch she mentioned,” John said, nodding in the store’s general direction. He side-stepped to let two children run by, crossing his arms. “After that, I suggest we go buy your parents something as well.”

“We already bought them gifts.”

“They help us with Rosie, so there’s no limit to what we can give them. The more the merrier, let’s go.”

As they left the electronics store, Rosie became a little fussy, so John picked her up in his arms. She watched the decorations and passersby with the keen interest of a small child, upper lip pouting thoughtfully. Her blond hair was messy at the crown, but it refused to yield at John’s attempts to tame it, so he let it be. It’s not like a toddler will mind. 

Sherlock kept checking the time, only twenty-something minutes had passed. Oh sod this. John seemed very smug and calm, much to his dismay, enjoying the warmth of the mall. Sherlock refrained from saying anything, knowing it wouldn’t get him anywhere. If only there was a case that called them out of this hell….

For the additional gifts for Sherlock’s parents, they settled on some fancy tea Sherlock only half paid attention to as John talked to the shopkeeper. He rather engaged in a grimace contest with Rosie over John’s shoulder, making her giggle. Her laughter made Sherlock’s heart soar and sing, affection flooding his veins like an avalanche. When John turned to see what Sherlock was doing as the shopkeeper got to packing their tea, he pretended to be checking his phone, feigning ignorance to John’s raised eyebrows or Rosie’s sudden giddiness. The moment John turned his attention back to the counter, Sherlock stuck his tongue out at his daughter, making her laugh again. 

John gave him a look saying _‘I have a clue what you’re doing, but I hope it isn’t what I think it is, you uncultured adult’_ , but Sherlock only blinked once before walking out of the tea shop. 

“Dada’s being silly, hm?” he heard John say to Rosie, who bit on her forefinger and nodded. 

Sherlock couldn’t be affronted by the admission of the accusation if he tried, but he wouldn’t concede to it either. “Certainly not more silly than your taste in jumpers, John,” he replied smoothly, hands stuffed in the pockets of his Belstaff. 

“Oi, cut it out before I--” John’s threat hung unspoken in the air as the shrieks and distressed screams of a child cut through the carols-filled, heated air. 

John and Sherlock swiftly turned around on their axis, Rosie as puzzled as the two of them, frowning at whoever disturbed their teasing family domestic. Fortunately, no child was being murdered -- the yelling was merely a result of a tantrum fit near a Santa Claus exhibition where parents and their spawns stood in a queue to have their kids take a picture with the clownish man in red and white. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sheep mentality of such a waste of time. He hated the red fat man. Though he did remind him of his brother, the way he bossed his elves around. Actually, Santa’s ‘little’ helpers were even more ridiculous, wearing green tights and jingle bell hats like they were about to entertain King Lear on his journey across old England countryside, only to disappear by the end of the tragedy, in this case called _Christmas_. Was it even legal, Santa’s extortion of his workers? And what about the reindeer? Isn’t it stressful to have to run around the globe in a singular evening to deliver presents to ungrateful brats? 

Besides, this whole camaraderie of a fat man and springly slaves he calls workers seemed fishy. They could be terrorists in disguise, or mafia members waiting for some trade to take place, exchanging drugs or weapons behind the scenes. Hm, that could be an interesting case, if a bit too obvious for his tastes. 

“What do you think?” he felt a nudge in his ribs. John nodded at the obnoxious red-white-green parade in front of them, the screams of the unknown child no longer grinding their ears. “Should we get Rosie to see Santa, as well?”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock quipped, taking their daughter from John’s arms into his own. John’s shoulder would start hurting soon, anyway. “We’re not supporting any creature of fables who exploits capitalism to spy on small children all year.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No. I’m only being sensible. Right, Watson?” Rosie fixed her bright blue eyes to Sherlock’s, blinking twice, three times. Then she glanced at Santa Claus and his elves, and clung closer to his chest. Ha. Sherlock shot John a triumphant look. 

As they walked past the Santa Claus scam (Sherlock smelling nicotine, which narrowed his senses), one young elf in particular made it a point to wave at Rosie, saying, “Have a happy, merry Christmas!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go have a look, Rosie?” John cooed, but his daughter vehemently shook her head and held onto Dada instead. “Alright. I’m overruled by two grinches, it seems. Let’s go buy food, then. There’s a Tesco nearby.”

Satisfied, Sherlock and Rosie followed John who pushed the strolled forth, as though leading a battalion into an offensive. It sure felt like it, dodging shopping carts that were barely navigable by their keepers who bought groceries in bulk in preparation for the holidays. 

Annoying. He hoped they didn’t need to buy that much themselves, otherwise he’ll leave half of it at the doorstep of the mall. They could exploit Mycroft’s minions for this, but _no_. John insisted on the drawn-out business of going there themselves. 

As John led the way, stopping in aisles from which they needed products (he took the weird wheely cart one could drag behind them or carry it by hand), Sherlock passed the time by telling Rosie his deductions of the other customers. 

“That woman over there by the cat food has forty-seven of them,” he said, pointing a finger at the older lady in a huge, pink coat. “People would say she’s crazy, but that’s just a stereotype. And why? Because most people are quick to judge and cling to societal judgement that ostracizes anyone who isn’t like them. Crazy cat ladies are said to have lost their marbles, which is an idiom for implying someone who is bonkers, but that lady over there is the CEO of a fashion company. You can tell that by her outfit, and the brand, plus the way she confidently carries herself around. She likely has no children and the cats are a replacement, but she takes great care of them. She has the means to do so.”

Rosie paid him no attention, instead trying to grab a bottle of milk for cats from the shelf in the meantime of Sherlock’s rapid, albeit quiet deductions. John stood across the aisle, putting three packets of frozen vegetable mixes in their cart. Thankfully, it wasn’t very full. Yet. It better stay that way. 

“And that man over there has crippling anxiety over asking his coworker out,” Sherlock said, a bit louder than he planned, eliciting a startled, wide-eyed stare from the man who stood over bags of dog food clutching a box of chocolates, a trembling thumb jumping across the man’s phone screen as he undoubtedly texted a message to said coworker. “He’ll say yes, most probably. ‘Tis the season and all that.”

Sherlock turned his attention to John, who in turn glared back. 

_Not now, please_ , the glare told him, but Sherlock only shrugged, putting Rosie on his hip. 

“If Dad doesn’t want me to spill people’s secrets we should head back home,” Sherlock muttered, loud enough for John to hear. Rosie started playing with his curls, and he let her. 

“Good try, genius, but we still need milk,” John said, patting him on the back. 

“Well, at least he’s not wrong,” the scared guy peeped, smiling shyly at them. He waved the phone in his hand. “He did say yes to the date!”

“Eh, he got one minor thing wrong,” the elderly cat lady chirped up, wheeling her cart filled to the brim with an assortment of cat food past them. She peered at the Watson-Holmeses over the rim of her shades and winked. “I’ll have fifty-six cats by New Year’s. New litter on the way.”

Sherlock smiled back at her, giving the besotted guy a nod and off they went, but not before John wished the strangers a ‘Happy Christmas!’. 

“New litter,” Sherlock murmured to Rosie. “There’s always _something_.”

Five minutes later -- which, frankly, felt like an eternity of an eternity to Sherlock -- Rosie fell asleep, and so he put her back in her stroller to doze. They were currently in the section where they displayed honey, but as much as Sherlock preferred farmer’s markets to browse their sortiment of products, he couldn’t resist to do so here as well. Bees. That’s another topic he can educate Rosie on. Maybe one day they may even have some of their own, together. He, and John, and Rosie. 

They already got everything they needed, even milk, which John made Sherlock grab by himself and deposit it in the cart quite childishly, but Captain Watson was relentless in the wars he waged. There were enough groceries for one large bag maximum. Sherlock hovered in front of the honey display, a finger tapping against his chin, lost in thought. He barely listened to John saying something to him. 

“Seems like we have everything so….” John’s voice somewhat reached him. Sherlock skimmed over the labels on the honey jars, dismissing them as useless. “I’ll go, then, and pay and….” The colour of the honey didn’t differ much in the eye-level shelves. Those on the lower shelves were slightly darker. Interesting. “So then you can….” Sherlock hummed an affirmative to whatever John was telling him. “....take Rosie. I’ll wait near the toy store, okay?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay. Don’t be long, love.”

Sherlock reached for the uppermost shelf and grabbed a golden jar full of the delicious bee product. Didn’t look bad per se, for a Tesco brand. Oooh, it was actually imported? Neat. Hm, but not really worth purchasing. He’ll much rather support local beekeepers. He put the jar back in its previous place and looked over the shelves one last time. He and Rosie better go catch up with John, not keep him waiting for long. 

Except…. 

When Sherlock turned to grab the stroller and leave this hellish place on Earth, it wasn’t there. And neither was Rosie. 

Sherlock froze, a cold, suffocating dread running up and down his spine as his brain caught up with the visual input. His hands shot up to his head, knees bent a trifle as they wobbled and he staggered until he regained his sense of balance and the sick feeling passed. 

_Oh no._

“Rosie?” Sherlock called out, legs moving on their own as he tried to keep a cool head. He darted from one end of the aisle to the other, checking the connecting corridors for a sight of her or John. But John couldn’t have taken her -- he told _Sherlock_ to take Rosie while he went to pay for food and then presumably buy their daughter a toy for Christmas! And she was _nowhere to be seen_. “Rosie?”

Sherlock ran around the Tesco like mad trying to locate his child, his pulse quickening, sweat forming in his hairline, and not because of the hot air circulating inside the hellsite of a mall. No sight of Rosie, and panic surged through him at the speed of light, faster than the explosion of a supernova. 

Where is she? Where is the stroller? Surely kidnappers were more obnoxious and obvious than that, especially in a Tesco setting during the day. 

_Think, you idiot, think!_ Sherlock scolded himself, both forefingers pressing to his temples as he willed himself to remember anything from his sensory input the minutes before John or Rosie disappeared. And… he came up with nothing but images of honey, and the bits of spoken words he mostly tuned out from John. He silently cursed himself, pacing up to the nearest cashier, promising that he’d never tune John out like that ever again. Or the world, for that matter. 

“Can I help you?” the petite woman asked, gifting him a practised polite smile. 

“Yes, have you or any of your colleagues seen a small child, about two years old, pass through here? In a stroller?”

“Ugh…. A child?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard his vision went black. “ _No, a paraplegic goat_ ,” he barked, looking out into the mall to maybe catch a glance of the familiar tiny human. “Of course a child! Have you seen her? This small girl,” he indicated with a cut, jerky gesture, “blond, eyes blue like a summer sky, ridiculously adorable, wearing a red jumper and black leggings. _Have. You. Seen. Her?_ ”

The woman blinked at his rapid speech, and Sherlock had the sudden urge to turn into a middle aged woman with a pixie cut demanding to see the manager, weren’t it for the fact that his and John’s child _has gone missing_. _And it’s his fault because he wasn’t paying attention!_

“FORGET IT,” he shouted, jumping up and over the cash register, startling the slow, imbecilic woman. 

Her shocked voice carried on through him, though. “Uhm, actually! I think yeah, I did see the girl! Went that way, with this guy, I dunno. There, to the right!”

Sherlock didn’t bother responding, and he rushed where she pointed, eyes alert, ears pricking up to pick up any distressing sound that may belong to Rosie. Too many damn people littered his view, no matter how tall and ominous he made himself look. God, he may have wanted to appear like a vulture ready to scratch the eyes of whoever stole his kid, but at the rate he was running, he probably looked like a headless mother hen. 

Breaking through the crowds and groups, Sherlock’s mind whirled with the possibilities and what ifs of the consequence of his not paying attention to John. Will he be angry? Certainly. He lost their child! Like ~~Anderson~~ an idiot! Should he call him, tell him what’s happened and figure out the next step? Surely John would like to be involved in a potential kidnapping case of _their own child._ Jesus fucking Christ, this was a horrendous feeling. Is this what Sherlock’s parents felt like when he disappeared for five minutes at that awful birthday party of his cousin back when he was seven years old and he got bored? The difference here was that he merely left to nitpick at said cousin’s planetarium, and the party took place at a family villa, not a sodding mall full of strangers. 

_Should I call Lestrade?_ Sherlock debated, deciding against the idea. There’s a chance Rosie is close, just like the kidnapper, and so he picked up his pace, wishing that he were born with eyes on the back of his head and not just the front. Useless, these organs of vision, if he couldn’t make the most of them when needed. 

Then, on his left, he saw a glimpse of Rosie’s red jumper and Sherlock jumped to action. His legs ran as though the floor was the treadmill on its highest setting, and he held his breath as he rounded the corner, ready to snatch his child back, thank you very much. He was also ready to deck whoever thought they’d steal a _detective’s_ child. For God’s sake. Criminals these days fell lower on the scale of IQ than Anderson, almost. And that’s something to say about their ability to be challenging. 

Even though he can’t take Rosie’s kidnapping as something that’s exciting, because it isn’t. She’s gone and out of his reach and _oh God John is going to be so furious with him, he will leave forever, this is unforgivable!_

Sherlock pushed the thought out of his mind -- he’ll deal with the fallout once Rosie is safely tucked in his arms, unharmed. He rounded the corner like a fury, already unleashing a litany of abuse at the kidnapper…. only it wasn’t Rosie in the red jumper, but another child. A boy. Sherlock cursed under his breath, his neck nearly snapping from all the turns it made as he tried to assess where Rose was taken. He ran across the mall, one time almost falling down a storey due to how he leaned over a railing to see what was happening below him. And slowly, the panic he so desperately held at an arm’s length so that his brain steered clear of any sentimental distractions gave way. 

He couldn’t _not_ be sentimental. _She’s your daughter too_ , John had said, shortly before they’d engaged. In the end, they raised her together. And now, Sherlock lost her, as if he were an inane, birdbrained imbecile from the Yard. John will leave, and understandably so. Swallowing the hard lump that formed at the back of his throat, Sherlock pushed through yet another crowd of people. Why did everyone leave their shopping to the last minute? 

He had to admit his defeat. Rosie, despite his best erratic efforts, is gone. The kidnapper must’ve been a woman, then. Comforting even if unfamiliar, and so Rosie let herself be taken without protest. Sherlock was sweaty, hot (and not in the good way), mentally broken, and stressed out beyond relief. For a brief second, he thought of getting lost himself forever, just so he wouldn’t have to see John’s face fall at the news of Rosie…. John had forgiven Sherlock on numerous occasions, but this? This is what broke the camel’s back, surely. Even Sherlock understood how much children meant to their parents -- he’s one himself. Or was? No, no catastrophic scenarios now. Except… 

The sight of Rosie’s stroller caught his eye. Sherlock’s body stiffened, focus narrowed, and sooner than he realised he was dashing through the mall again, following -- surprisingly enough -- one of those sodding Santa’s elves who pushed the stroller into a back room, just a bit off out of the general public’s eye. He even stupidly looked around and over his shoulder. As if that didn’t make him incriminating enough. 

Seriously, though? Santa? Elves? Child trafficking? Those words whirled in front of Sherlock’s red vision, vengeance fueling his movements. On another note, it’s kind of brilliant. Is it brilliant? Why is it brilliant? It’s an obvious crime that can happen unknowingly in front of many without suspicion. Until they get caught. How do they manage for the children to stay quiet? Drugging them? Singing lullabies to them? Showing them puppies? He and Rosie have to have a debate about the ‘stranger danger’ eventually, as John had called it the other day, when she’s old enough to understand. 

Sherlock aimed it for the ‘Employees Only’ door and of course the amateur has left it unlocked. He hesitated at first, thinking that perhaps he should alert John, in the end. Sherlock did have a tendency to throw himself in danger’s claws. This time, though, he had more than a good reason for it, and he gave zero tosses about himself if that meant Rosie would be safe. Nodding, he barged in, startling a shriek out of the elf. 

“Who are you?” the man peeped, covering the stroller with his body. Honestly, those shoes with dangling jingle bells on the tips were absurd. 

“Your worst nightmare,” Sherlock sneered, crowding the elfs space in long strides. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“ _My daughter_ , you imp! Where did you take her? Why did you take her? I’ll be honest, I thought that if someone wants to get back at me, they’d target _me_ , not a toddler! Is this some sort of ploy to get at me and my husband? Did we foil your plans to take over the world? Did we ruin your ill-constructed lies? Whatever, none of that matters -- where is Rosie?! And why in the bloody hell do you kidnap children before Christmas?”

The elf under him shrunk in size, it seemed. All from the sheer ominous presence Sherlock emitted like the sun and consumed all the available air akin to a blackhole. His nerves were fried, and he was at his wit’s end. If Sherlock doesn’t bully the elf to tell him where Rosie is right _now_ , then he’ll lose count of how many times he fell off the mall’s rooftop. 

“We didn’t take any kid!” the elf man stuttered, back of his knees bumping against the stroller. Sherlock noticed it was devoid of any toddler. _Oh fucking hell_. 

“Am I supposed to believe that? Your body language screams ‘insecure’, your hands are trembling and so is your voice, even outside of the room you looked around like a cliché villain,” Sherlock fired off, sidestepping the man to get a better look around the claustrophobic room. It was bare of any furniture, save for the benches and lockers where the employees stashed their clothes and possessions while working shifts. Except for a hole in the wall, red metal doors wide open in their hinges where a fire hose was stashed. Or used to. Sherlock strode over, muttering more deductions about the poor man’s personal life that left him unable to coherently speak. Sherlock banged the red obstacle out of his way from where he assumed Rosie was kept. And there were… “Cigarettes?”

The man flushed, staring down at his feet. He looked like a kid who got caught stealing cookies before dinner. Sherlock’s eyebrows scrunched up, and he had a feeling of utter wrongness. Boxes upon boxes of cigarettes -- neither an English brand, but from continental Europe. Eastern, by the looks of the covers and the language. 

No kidnapped children. 

That was both a relief and even more frustrating. 

Sherlock automatically grabbed a packet of cigs sticking out from one box. All this stress made him crave nicotine to calm his unstable, worried neurons. He whirled around his axis to glare at the elf. It worked; said man cowered near the stroller in which three more boxes of cigarettes lay, disguised in Christmas wrapping paper. The topmost box bore tear marks on its side where the man started unwrapping it. _Bloody cigarette smuggling_. Not even a two on his case scale!

“Stupid, stupid!” Sherlock chastised himself, tugging at his curls in tired desperation. He has no idea where Rosie is, and the potential (thankfully wrong deduction of Santa Claus and his green-clothed morons) case-cum-nothing and the ebb and flow of adrenaline has already faded and left him drained. This was worse than his usual case crashes, and yet he felt weirdly energised by the unknown whereabouts of his daughter. 

Sherlock grabbed the elf man by the lapels of his obnoxiously lime green tunic and picked him up until his legs dangled in the air. The man let out a sound very similar, but not limited to a squeak. 

“Please, sir! I don’t sell it to minors!”

“I don’t give a toss about who you sell the cigarettes to!” Sherlock growled, glaring so hard into the man’s eyes he thought he’d burn a hole in them. “Listen closely -- you patrol the mall all day, and you greeted me, my husband, and my daughter earlier. Do you remember?”

“Oh! Yes, I do!” 

“Good. Now, have you seen my little girl, by any chance, going back? Or just around?”

“Uhm… I… think so? Red jumper, right? Blonde hair up to shoulders, cutesy smile?”

“And a pink hair pin above her right ear,” Sherlock supplied a detail. Finally, a small wave of relief washed over him, easing his tensed body by a trifle. 

The young man in his grasp nodded fervently, the jingles dangling from his hat chiming into the rhythm. “Yeah! She and this guy stopped by for a bit, just to chat.”

“John? Was it John?” Sherlock demanded, shaking the guy for good measure. Could it be that John found her already? Had they left for Baker Street? Was John angry and left Sherlock here? What… what if John was packing their things at this very moment, moving out because Sherlock failed to be a normal, responsible parental figure? 

“Uh, is that your husband?”

“Yes!”

“Well, actually, the girl was with another man, I think.”

Sherlock shook him harder. “With _whom_? I need a description, as detailed as you remember, _this instant_!”

“The guy was a bit shorter than you, but you’re pretty tall in general, heh,” the guy blurted out shyly, adjusting his green hat as a droplet of sweat rolled down his temple. Sherlock’s left eye twitched. “Uhm, he’s also a bit heavier in bodybuild, has a bigger belly, short brown hair, glasses, looked like a nice guy, actually.”

“Kidnappers usually do,” Sherlock snarled, gruffly putting the elf back down. He staggered to the side, having to pat at the wall to regain balance of his surroundings. “And the clothes? What was he wearing?”

“Don’t recall that, sir,” the guy said apologetically. Correction: a boy. He wasn’t even twenty, now that Sherlock took a better look at him, heart still pounding against his chest. Gah, he can’t get tangled in distractions when Rosie may be shipped off to some warehouse! “But I think he had a brown coat. And the glasses were black and squarish.”

 _Like that helps a lot, but at least Lestrade will have a lead to start an official investigation_. 

“Sir?” Sherlock realised he’d been staring at the wall, blinking, for an indeterminate amount of time. The boy stared up at him expectantly, writhing his hands together. Nervous. Ah, the stash of cigs. Obviously he’d been dragged into it by a fellow colleague. If he were to start this smuggling alone, confidence wouldn’t be much of an issue, especially if he’s alone. This wasn’t the case. 

At the moment as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, his phone rang, a notification vibrating through the useful metal box. His heart skipped a beat, jumping to his throat -- it was from John. 

_Where are you? Waiting near the toy store, hurry up -J_

Sherlock gulped, and heat filled his eyes. How does he break this to John? No, he has to keep it together for a while longer. Rosie may still be at the mall. The sooner John knows, the better, and sod whatever happens after. Sherlock will take the scolding. And he’ll also personally beat the kidnapper with one of those atrocious candy canes that stick around the fat man Santa Claus while he’s at it. Holiday spirit and all that. 

Alltoys was just a short walk off on the ground floor where the elves and Santa were stationed to haunt children’s dreams, and Sherlock stuck his chin out in a dreaded acceptance of his fate as a parent, a father, leaving the boy he scrutinized behind, perplexed. 

He picked up his pace, lengthening his strides, until he could see the silvery hair of his husband around the corner. Emotion welled up inside him, pushing on the inside of his rib cage where it threatened to spill its contents. He’d wronged John many times, but this was the last hit. 

Sherlock wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, took a deep breath, and braced himself for the inevitable downfall. But next to John stood a man, a familiar man -- short, plump, a warm smile on his face, black rimmed squarish glasses sitting on his nose, and a brown coat. Mike Stamford chatted John up, and the two laughed at something Sherlock didn’t catch; he was too busy running towards them and -- Rosie, who sat in Stamford’s arms, awake and safe and unharmed. 

As soon as Sherlock came into view, she shouted an excited, “Dada!” and she outstretched her own tiny, thin arms as Sherlock ran forward and pressed her against his chest. 

“Rosie! Hello, little Watson,” he muttered into her soft hair as he swirled them around in a circle, the girl giggling as she wound her arms tighter around Sherlock’s neck. 

“You’ve been apart for half an hour,” John’s amused but affectionate voice cut through Sherlock’s improvised dance with Rosie. “What took you so long? I met Mike on our way here. Rosie chose a teddy bear in the store while you stayed behind.”

“Unimportant,” Sherlock quipped, unwilling to share his barely avoided mental breakdown in front of Mike. He must’ve looked ruffled or odd, however, for John and Mike both frowned at how he hugged Rosie. Was his distress still that obvious? Damn his transport! He had to divert their -- namely John’s -- attention elsewhere. He put Rosie down and reached for her winter jacket, scarf, and hat, noting that John tucked their groceries in the lower compartment underneath the seat. He had too many holes in his memory to form a coherent story that made sense to him in regards to this joke of a fiasco, but that can wait. 

Once Rosie was dressed up to the nines and ready to face December’s cold winter air, Sherlock picked her up again, the thought of putting her out of his line of sight or reach absolutely unacceptable. He located the closest exit and walked outside with as much dignity as he could muster, still rattled by the rise and fall of adrenaline and fear. In case John or Mike didn’t catch on, he called over his shoulder, “I believe we planned to get hot chocolate? Stamford, feel free to join us!”

“Nah, I’ll pass!” Mike said, waving at Rosie, nodding them a farewell. “Got presents to buy, but have a happy, merry Christmas!”

Sherlock shuddered at the memory of Santa’s overjoyed elves.

*~*~*~*~*

“Alright, Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John said, sitting down on the sofa next to Sherlock. John put a hand on his knee and squeezed it reassuringly. Sherlock tried feigning indifference, somewhat soothed by the hot chocolate and walk they had had earlier. Rosie was tucked under blankets, sleeping upstairs soundly. 

“What makes you think there’s anything wrong?” Sherlock said quietly, blinking innocently at John. He had no desire to revisit the events prior to the delicious hot chocolate across that hellish mall. 

John gave him a look. “I saw you put on three nicotine patches. Thought I didn’t see it, huh?”

“I was discreet enough. Problem?”

“All I’m saying is, I know your tells. And while you didn’t have to smoke a cigarette, I sure as hell observed and I do know about the packet in your coat.”

Damn. Busted. “Remind me to give you more credit,” Sherlock told him, running a hand through his hair. It needed a wash. 

“Roger that. So, what’s going on? You know we said no secrets.”

“I…. It’s nothing.”

“Liar,” John smiled, throwing an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulling him closer so that they’re sides and thighs were pressed together. He planted a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, a thumb caressing the refined cheekbone. “Come on. You know I won’t let it go. Out with it.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and lowered his head so that it rested on John’s shoulder. “I hate malls,” he exhaled sharply, but exhaustion and the sudden onslaught of drainness took the bite out of his words. 

“So you’ve said,” John laughed, rubbing Sherlock’s side soothingly. “But… that’s not it, is it? Forced socialising, you deal fine with that, even if you sulk and spit abuse. So what’s _really_ the matter?”

Slouching in his seat, Sherlock shuffled until his head rested in John’s lap, whose hand sneaked into his curls and started massaging his scalp. Okay, that helped abate his lingering anxiety…. Not much, though. Sherlock sighed, fixing his gaze to shift to the ceiling and decidedly not John’s marine blue eyes inspecting him. 

“I thought I’d lost Rosie in the mall,” Sherlock confessed, biting his lower lip. What will John think of him? He’s a detective solving crimes, and yet he can’t watch their child, even though miscommunication took over, overruling his logical part of the brain by a flood of emotions he never imagined he’d experience in his life. 

John’s hand and fingers in his hair stilled. This is it. This is when John realises that Sherlock is incompetent at co-parenting Rosie and they leave forever. “You… Why would you think that?”

The tips of Sherlock’s ears went pink. He took a deep breath, and in order to get this over with, he unleashed a monotonous litany of the excruciating events at the mall. “I -- back in Tesco, I thought you were telling me that you’re going to shop ahead, pay for the groceries, and that Rosie and I should meet up for you later. I lost track of time, checking out the honey prices and their quality -- it’s abhorrent, by the way -- and when I turned to take Rosie to go, she wasn’t there! And suddenly everything spun, my head, the world… It was horrible, John. I practically tracked the whole dimension of Tesco, first to fourth and beyond, then I questioned a cashier and she was magically useless and slower than Dimmock after eating strawberry doughnuts on a Thursday morning--”

“Wait, wait,” John stopped him, his thighs flexing under Sherlock’s neck as he put them up on the coffee table. He hid his face in his hands and leaned back on the sofa, so Sherlock couldn’t assess his reaction, even though his voice sounded…. giddy? “You thought I left Rosie with you because you misheard me? And then you panicked and ran around Tesco like a headless chicken?”

“If you want to be metaphorical about it, yes,” Sherlock frowned at the ceiling, letting out a slightly ragged breath. “I’m not done yet. After shouting a little at the cashier, she directed me in a direction and I rushed to see whether Rosie and her kidnapper were still close enough for me to catch them, but that proved to be fruitless. There was _another_ child who was wearing the same jumper as Rosie!”

“You thought Rosie was kidnapped?” John choked out, and it was unmistakable that he was laughing. Well, that quickly transformed into a fit of high-pitched giggles when Sherlock confirmed it. “Oh my God, Sherlock, why?”

“Because I’m an idiot who gets much too excited by beekeeping and honey even in less-than-adequate stores in vile malls you drag me to and who misunderstands what you say in the heat of the moment admiring honey?”

“Okay, slow down,” John laughed, his other hand squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder. He finally looked at Sherlock and sobered a little at his lost, sorrowful expression. “Oh, Sherlock. Why didn’t you text me? You could just verify and stop freaking out. Did you search the whole mall?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, omitting the question about not texting John. He’ll get to it at the end. He covered his eyes to avoid John’s amused look. “I even interrogated an elf--” John lost it again, giggles shaking his whole body and Sherlock. “Shush, I did! He was just as useless at that woman in Tesco. For a short while I thought that Santa’s helpers have a child trafficking ring -- after all, it _is_ the perfect disguise, however disturbing. I was, thankfully, wrong. They smuggle cigarettes. Well, not the boy I stared down in the ‘Employees Only’ room, he is coerced into it by an older colleague because he is young, naive, and broke, but… He did provide me a description of the man I thought was Rosie’s kidnapper. I was on my way to track him down and beat him with a candy cane just for the sheer rage I had going on inside me, but then you texted me and prompted me to come…. So I did. And the ‘kidnapper’ turned out to be Mike Stamford. Rosie was with you the whole time, and I’m an ineffable idiot.”

By the time he was done speaking and recounting what he’d done, John was in stitches, and Sherlock burrowed his shameful face in John’s stomach and his green Christmas jumper. “I can’t believe I missed that! You did seem more clingy than usual, holding onto Rosie the whole time, even in the taxi.”

“I was so scared, John,” Sherlock whispered, his throat closing up. “I was exhausted, emotionally and by the time we escaped those nine realms of hell also physically.”

“I bet, you haven’t slept much either.”

“No, but that wasn’t the problem.”

“Yeah, I know that now. You daft bugger,” John said, affection seeping through his voice. He brushed a stray curl away from Sherlock’s forehead. “You should’ve texted me.”

“I… I was afraid,” Sherlock admitted, muttering the confession into John’s jumper. He liked this one, it fit John perfectly, and Sherlock chose it. Finally a good choice of clothing. 

“Afraid of what?” 

“That you’d be angry with me for losing Rosie. That you’d leave after.”

Suddenly, the world shifted, and Sherlock found himself sitting upright, slotted in the vee of John’s legs as his hands steadied him, John cradling his cheeks, fixing him a stern stare. “Sherlock, don’t say that. That’s not gonna happen, alright? We’ve been over that. And this,” he took both their hands, nodding at the silver rings they both had, “is a good reminder of that.”

“But what if I did lose Rosie? Wouldn’t you be furious? Wouldn’t you--”

“You didn’t lose Rosie, you berk,” John interrupted him, his eyes jumping between Sherlock’s, his lips a thin line. All the mirth that painted his features mere second ago was gone. “Look, nothing bad happened, so why beat yourself up for it? It doesn’t serve anything to wonder about the ‘what ifs’.”

“So you’re not angry?”

“Why on Earth -- Sherlock, love, no. I’m very much _not_. But I do find it hilarious that you interrogated a whole elf and ran miles worth marathon in the short span of half an hour.”

“Parents are usually stressed out and angry when a child goes missing. I thought you’d be too; even the hypothetical possibility is deeply unsettling.”

“It is, I won’t lie about that,” John said, giving Sherlock a lopsided smile, thumbs brushing his cheekbones in soothing circular motions. “And… okay, I admit I’d be angry, but not with you.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Shut up and let me finish! No, I would not be angry with _or_ at you, because no parent just lets their children be kidnapped. Hypothetically or not. Human beings are vile in general, and we’ve solved quite a few cases where you saw that oftentimes, the kidnapping happens out of the blue, and not many have a quick reaction to act on it. Besides, if I were to leave Rosie with you, you’d know. I’d make sure you _were_ listening properly.”

“Will you, even after this?” Sherlock asked in a small voice. 

“Of course, you _ineffable_ idiot,” John chastised him, pulling him into a hug. That felt… better. Sherlock melted into the embrace, getting an overload of John’s shampoo’s scent. “Looking back, it’s my fault too, and I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I do. I saw that you were kind of mesmerized by the selection of honey -- I know you find bees fascinating, so I thought I’d leave you to it. I was saying that I was going to pay, and go to the toy store and take Rosie. Then I told you not to be long, but you probably missed the part where I said I was taking Rosie, hm? I should’ve made sure you know that. It just stressed you out unnecessarily. You looked devastated before you saw Rosie, and I got a bit scared about what had happened. I thought you were ambushed by Santa or something.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock murmured into the crook of John’s neck, though a smile crept up his mouth, threatening to lift the corners of his mouth. “Now you know I was running about like a right idiot.”

“Shh, that’s alright. I’d do the same thing. Next time, text me immediately. Okay? Even if something _did_ happen and suddenly we have a bigger problem to face than shopping at malls. Call me, text me, rouse the whole British government, I don’t care.”

“Mm, we have to make a step-by-step plan for every catastrophe that may ensue in regards to Rosie’s safety,” Sherlock said, already having three clear steps drafted: 

_call John_

_call Lestrade_

_call Mycroft_

John’s chest vibrated with another quiet laugh. “Alright, love. Whatever makes you content.”

Amiable silence settled over them after that, Sherlock relinquishing the embrace, John’s warm arms wrapped around him. It made him feel safe, and calm, and at peace for the first time in the day. Night, technically, since the sky outside darkened hours ago. Only the crackling of fire munching on wood in the fireplace could be heard. Sherlock played with the fine hair at the nape of John’s neck and sighed. 

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Please don’t make me buy milk ever again.”

“Don’t worry, I learned my lesson,” John promised, hugging him tighter around the waste, laughing softly. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, much better,” Sherlock said, his forehead touching John’s, and their lips met in a chaste kiss. He sat straighter and stretched like a cat, yawning. “But I’m knackered. I think it’s the post-case crash.”

John hummed, yawning in a chain response. “Let’s go, then.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m too tired and lazy to stand up. Carry me?”

“Lazy bastard. I’m not getting any younger.”

“Consider it a preface to your New Year’s resolution to start working out. You won’t last a month in the gym.”

“Shut up or I’ll make you.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“No, I’m tired too. Later?”

“Later,” Sherlock said, letting himself be lifted up by John, face burrowed in his shoulder. He fell asleep sooner than John got them in the bedroom. Rosie was safe, John wasn’t leaving, and everything was good. 

In the end, they did have a very happy, merry Christmas. 

**Author's Note:**

> Just an FYI, I imagine the elf helper boy to look like Tom Holland, and even though his name wasn't said in the fic, I named him Richie. I don't even know why, I just thought it'd be hilarious and add to the comedy.  
>   
> [above is an embedded image of Tom Holland sitting in front of some giant ass Christmas tree saying: "Until my friends were like: 'Tom. Stop wearing the Christmas jumper.'"]  
> I couldn't find a gif or a pic of Tom in an elf hat so.... will make do I hope!
> 
> Also, when Sherlock found out Rosie isn't next to him in Tesco, I imagined him doing the 'freaking out' animation from the Sims 3, but for illustration I only found this picture of some woman freaking out over her cat scratching a sofa:  
>   
> pity, I had a picture of a Sim kid who freaked out over a broken procelain toilet before and lost the picture
> 
> That's all the.... probably weird trivia there is for this fic :D  
> Have a happy, merry Christmas yourselves!


End file.
